


Examination

by nakajimagardenar



Series: The One Where You Do Giant Alien Robots [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bloodplay, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, GOD AWFUL BOX PUNS, I AM SO SORRY THIS EXISTS, Inappropriate Humor, Medical Kink, Medical Malpractice, PHARMA BEING A HUGE FUCKING DICK, Reader has female parts, Reader has no defined gender, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:22:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakajimagardenar/pseuds/nakajimagardenar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You really (really) hate those stupid box jokes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Examination

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anima-blue](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=anima-blue).



> A little something for my sweet summer child anima-blue involving a certain doctor, a box, and questionable use of chainsaws.

“Why don’t you try and guess what’s in the box, dearest.”

His voice is rich, heavy with the promise of something you aren’t quite sure you want to know, at least not yet. The doctor (ex doctor, you remind yourself, because a real doctor would never engaged in the equivalent of under the table organ exchanges, murder, and body snatching) smiles languidly at you, a smile all too wide and far too disturbing to be as attractive as it is, and you can’t help but shiver in a mixture of revulsion and anticipation for the Autobot’s next move.

He slips a blunt finger under your chin, forcing your head back and pressing the flat of his chainsaw against your pulse, dragging it along the curve of your collarbone, down the swell of your chest and the dip of your stomach. Cold air rushes up to brush against your now bare skin, followed quickly by the sting of your skin catching against the serrated edge of his weapon. Uou hiss, back arching and fingers digging into the seams of the good doctor’s armor, and your efforts are rewarded with a shallow chuckle and wet, all too familiar feeling of his glossa tracing the shallow scratches left behind by his chainsaw.

“Oh do try and control yourself,” he coos condescendingly, digging his thumb against your stomach and kneading small circular motions against your skin. The feeling is both nauseating and enticing, and you feel something warm and heavy threaten to surge up inside of you as your eyes roll to the back of your head (you can’t help it, he’s so good with his hands). He pulls away before you can make a mess of yourself, and you’re ripped from your mockingly peaceful reprieve by the sound of the jet’s wicked laughter, and once again that chainsaw begins to move ever southward, parting what little is left of your clothes and leaving you completely bare (a shame, you rather liked that outfit) to his clinical stare.

He makes a small sound you’re sure is nothing but condescending, turning you over with mock delicacy as he goes about investigating every inch of you he can reach as if he’s never seen you like this before (he has). His fingers dig into your skin almost unkindly (but not quite), mapping you out and further committing you to his memory, slipping inquisitive fingers under the swell of your chest (“You’re growing quite nicely,” he mocks) and between your legs. He hums approvingly when you strain against his grasp, and to your credit you manage to stop yourself from crying out when he rubs against you with the flat of his chainsaw’s blade.

There’s a certain appeal to the danger he’s presenting you here, and you aren’t quite able to stop yourself from mewling and squirming when he rubs you in that way you can’t believe you enjoy so much (he’s smiling again, and you can feel that infuriatingly smug look on his face more than you can see it). He retracts his weapon-appendage and apologizes condescendingly when you begin to protest, only to fill you up with his glossa, warm and wet and almost too big to fit inside of you, suckling and nipping at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs before poking at your clit with one of his fingers. It should hurt, and it really does, but he offers an apology in the form of running lazy circles along the abused nub with his glossa, dragging it down and back inside of you, curling it in that way that hits you just so.

There are tiny stars at the edge of your vision and a growing pressure in the pit of your stomach, and you don’t quite remember when you started rocking your hips against Delphi’s head medic (but really, you cannot even begin to care at this point) in a mad dash to reach your peak, but it’s when you’re mere moments away from your release that he pulls away, leaving you wet unsatisfied and oh so empty

“I think it’s time I showed you what’s in the box, dearest - ”

This isn’t the first time Pharma’s left you hanging to pull one of his increasingly awful box jokes (absently, you wonder how Ratchet managed to deal with this), and you can hardly find the will to glare at him when he lets the punch line drop -

“It’s my dick. ♡”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, hit me up at http://muffetsofficial.tumblr.com/ and I'll accept all your dirty Transformers and Undertail requests if you do !! ( O v O ) b


End file.
